US miserabilists Fister reside in a dank, filthy corner of Doom, with a sound that is downright evil. It should come as no surprise that their touring buddies include the monstrous Primitive Man, peddling as they do a similarly hate-filled, toxic crawl.
Fourth album No Spirit Within (Listenable) commences with ‘Frozen Scythe’ and its Spaghetti Western-influenced intro, giving the uninitiated no clue of the horror to come. It soon arrives with the evil growls, screams and crushing weight of ‘Disgraced Possession’, its centrepiece based around a lead solo and pounding drum combo. This builds to an eerie shower of lead needles which lightens the oppressive misery, whilst paradoxically heightening the terror.
The bone-crunching ‘Cazador’ ensues, the aural representation of The Hobbit’s titanic, fearsome trolls: funeral, its tonnage slamming down and a ruthless enmity emanating from its diseased mouth. Shifts in pace lift the suffocating air slightly, but not the violence, whilst more of Marcus Newstead’s howling leads to increasing the tension. ‘I Am Kuru’, meanwhile, carries that ominous thunder through a bowel-scraping carrion call, the brutal pummelling of the drums and later vocal grumblings driving the track and the listener’s mind further toward the edge of sanity.
“No heart left to break” screams Kenny Snarzyk at the head of the title track, a paean to despair dragged deeper by a morose solo, the track suddenly exploding into a Blackened Punk-style rant before returning to its dense, sunken swamp: the ponderous rhythm delightfully agonising, Snarzyk’s sparse vocal as dry as the Atacama. The subsequent weird Electronica of ‘Heat Death’, despite its claustrophobic swell, brings an element of relief before closer ‘Star Swallower’ spews its diseased lungs over the carcass of this brooding, anguished set, Snarzyk coating the skin with a venom so vile that the heightened presence of a cymbal and Kirk Gatterer’s powerful drum march causes the nerves to tingle.
Despite showing invention No Spirit Within, is a terrifying monstrosity, a slow trudge through rancid filth. No more nor less is expected from this trio from the Deep South who continue to produce the foulest, most enjoyable stench Doom has to offer.
7.0/10.0
PAUL QUINN